It's Your Party, You Can Die If You Want To
by Mojo Rising
Summary: It's Shawn's birthday. He's determined to celebrate it in style, but some douche has stolen his cake. Who even does that? Meanwhile, a string of bizarre murders seems to be targeting other psychics, and everyone's tense. M for violence and mansex. Shassi.
1. Does This Cake Make Me Look Fat?

It's Your Party, You Can Die If You Want To

Written by: Oni-Baka

**Santa Barbara**—1987

_Nearly a dozen children were gathered around the table, all of them screaming something that was more or less like "Happy Birthday." At the head of the table, Shawn wiggled impatiently, the paper hat on his head flopped nearly to his left ear. Just behind him, Henry Spencer stood, placing a cake lit with candles in front of Shawn. _

_Shawn barely waited for the last strains of the pseudo-music to fade before he was moving out of his chair, heading for the pile of presents gathered on the floor nearby. He nearly made it all the way out of the chair before Henry's hand descended on his shoulder, rocking him back into place. Henry looked down at him incredulously, gaze flicking to the group of children now shifting in their seats, waiting for birthday cake. _

"_Shawn, where are you going?" Henry asked, his tone cautionary, a tone Shawn knew very well but chose, as he often did, to ignore._

"_I'm going to go open my presents" Shawn replied in an 'of course' tone of his own. Henry's eyebrows clicked together, and down the table Gus slunk down slightly in his seat, knowing that expression as well. The fork clutched in one fist was lowered to the table; he didn't foresee getting that cake anytime soon. _

"_Shawn, don't you think that's just a little inappropriate? Your guests haven't even gotten their cake yet." Shawn let out a long-suffering sigh, hands thrown up._

"_It's my birthday! And I'm already full of pizza." Henry leaned down slightly so that he could look his son full in the face, and Shawn's expression closed obstinately._

"_I know I didn't raise you to be like this, Shawn. You're being rude. Your friends have been looking forward to this; surely you can wait a few minutes." _

"_But it's my birthday! Who cares what they want?" Children began to shift uncomfortably. One kid with two party hats making horns on his head started shredding his napkin, slowly feeding the strips into his paper cup. Henry moved even further down until he was kneeling beside Shawn's chair, and one hand came up to point into Shawn's face._

"_Gratitude, Shawn. That is what you are showing a distinct lack of. These people" he indicated the uncomfortable group_

"_came to celebrate your life. They brought you gifts, and they are here because they like you—"_

"_Michael Colmes is here because Gus told him there would be chocolate cake!" Shawn interrupted, arms crossing obstinately over his chest._

_Henry sighed, looking across the table briefly before re-capturing his son's eyes._

"_Then Michael Colmes can go without cake, but it doesn't change your bad behavior. Now what do you have to say to your friends?" Shawn's eyes went wide with horror._

"_Dad—"_

"_Shawn." Henry's stance brooked no argument. Shawn turned back to the table, body stiff with humiliation._

"_I'm sorry I was ungrateful and wanted to open my presents…" Henry nodded approval._

"—_even though it's my birthday and I should get to do whatever I want."_

_**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**_

The look of satisfaction on Shawn's face eclipsed all adjectives that might have been used to describe it, from gleeful onward to tickled pink. It eclipsed all other expressions in the area, spreading from his body into the general populace of the Santa Barbara police department.

"Need help there?" Officer Mcnab asked, beaming back at Shawn. Shawn inclined his head slightly, all teeth, hands completely full.

"I got it. Bringing it to the bullpen; come by for a piece later, yeah?"

"Will do. Oh, and Happy Birthday." Shawn's grin grew impossibly larger, and he shifted to bring one hand into a fist, still holding the enormous pineapple upside down cake balanced on his forearms and gripped tightly. McNab hurried forward after a brief awkward pause, knocking his own fist lightly against Shawn's own and almost knocking the both of them over. After several hurried apologies and assurances that it was fine, Shawn kept moving. He stopped by the break room, then veered toward Chief Vick's office instead, cake still in tow. Was he fishing for well-wishings? Well, maybe. The cake did have 'Happy Birthday Shawn!!" (complete with two exclamation points) drawn on in gigantic lime-green letters.

"Jules!" he called, seeing a flash of blonde passing around the corner. Juliet's face peeked cutely from around the corner, smiling slightly in recognition.

"Shawn." Eyes automatically traveled to the cake, and the letters blaring off of it.

"Oh!" The smile widened, and she came toward him, clutching a thick manilla folder. Shawn automatically looked down at it, catching on all the minute details offered: a name, Millicent Bargussi, and a sliver of snapshot that showed a hand with a hole clean through the middle. Purple glittery nail polish with a silver moon on the thumb.

"Shawn, I didn't know it was your birthday!" Shawn dragged his gaze away, shifting the cake slightly.

"Yes, well, I don't like to telegraph the fact—" A look of fake modesty.

"—but yes, in fact, I seem to remember it is my birthday." A shift of the eyebrows, and the cake lifted further, right under his chin.

"I brought cake for everyone. Where's Lassy? It's his favorite." Juliet appeared to have no ready response to this except "really?" but was saved from directing Shawn by the sound of a cleared throat coming from behind Shawn.

"Detective O'Hara, I assume that is the file I was asking for?"

"Lassy-face!" Shawn exclaimed, turning quickly with his cake.

"Not now, Spencer, I don't have the time" Lassiter gritted out, barely glancing at the cake. He blinked, looked again more closely, but seemed not at all inclined to comment, holding out his hand for Juliet's file. It was handed over, Juliet slightly chagrined and embarrassed as their positions meant handing it right over Shawn's head.

Lassiter inclined his head, and made to leave, but Shawn moved, with cake, to intercept him, scooting around to block the head detective's path. Perhaps out of respect for his suit and the dry cleaning bill should he get frosting on his jacket, Lassiter stopped, the look in his eyes one of impatience and surprisingly little tolerance; far less than usual.

Shawn immediately reacted to it, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin slightly, a posture that usually categorized his interactions with his father and little else.

"Don't you have something to say to me, Lassy?"

"Out of my way, Spencer. Unlike you, I am very busy." Shawn's head tilted, eyes glancing off tiny cues in Lassiter's appearance; rumpled shirt, grease stain, light bruising under the eyes, stubble, chapped lips. Not just brushing Shawn off then, maybe. Lassiter looked tired; tired and worried.

"Two words, Lassy. That's all I want."

A hiss of air spilling from between Lassiter's clenched lips, and for a second it looked as if the other man might attack him. Shawn flinched automatically, eyes widening in surprise, clutching his cake more tightly like a shield. He vaguely wondered if the pleasant springiness of the pineapple would cushion a blow more effectively, and Lassiter closed his eyes slowly, appearing to regain control of himself.

"Not now, Spencer" Lassiter repeated, and this time Shawn let him pass, crowding against the wall with his cake. He looked back to Juliet, eyes still wide, demanding an explanation.

"Owch; I'm getting shivers" he murmured, and Juliet winced in sympathy. She'd made the mistake of coming into work too cheerfully that morning, and had paid for it similarly.

"Don't take it too hard, Shawn. He's—just really stressed right now. The case he's working on, it's—bad news. On all counts. We really need to wrap it up, as quick as possible."

Interest piqued, Shawn moved to set his cake on the nearest desk (Lassiter's, as it turned out).

"Yeah? What's going on, maybe I could come in and help—"

"No!" Juliet cut in, a hair too early for Shawn's sensibilities. His interest level grew, and he mentally rubbed his hands together. Hmm. Happy birthday to him.

"Don't hold out on me, Jules—this is something big, has to be. What's going on? Come on, it's my birthday, you have to tell me." A pained look that really did look adorable on her, and Juliet shook her head, backing away.

"I'm sorry, Shawn, but I really can't. Lassiter gave explicit instructions to everyone in the station, and Chief Vick is in agreement; we aren't to let you anywhere near this one. Sorry." She backed up another step.

"Happy Birthday. Really. Your cake is amazing, looks delicious. Sorry. I have to go." And she turned on one fashionably sturdy heel, clicking away and leaving Shawn incredulous and determined to follow or give up. He veered back for Chief Vick, letting himself in and shutting the door behind him, leaving the cake on Lassiter's desk. Chief Vick, who had been on the phone, paused in mid-word, then covered the receiver and leaned toward him.

"How dare you come in here without knocking, Spencer, what do I have to keep telling you?"

Spencer held hands up to his forehead in classic psychic pose, spasming his body slightly, one foot twitching more violently than the other. Chief Vick looked on for a moment, before clearing her throat.

"Excuse me, I'll have to call you back" she muttered into the phone, resigned to the fact that Spencer was apparently about to have yet another psychic 'episode' in her office.

"I'm seeing something" he whispered dramatically, squeezing his eyes shut

"Something, seeing…purple. Everything's purple and—oh!" He screamed, an earsplitting yell, and Chief Vick jumped, looking concerned as he brought his right hand up, fingers writhing.

"Oh, it hurts! Ah, it feels like my hand—my hand, it's—being pierced. Blood everywhere. Silver moons. Ah…" He fell to the floor, still clutching his hand, and behind him he heard the door opening. Sensing a larger audience, he rolled onto his back, hand held up before him, to glance up, mouth open for another dramatic moan, to hold gazes with—Lassiter. Lassiter, looking incensed. Lassiter, again looking about to throttle him. Dangerous. And somehow his moan caught in his teeth, and he trailed off, left lying awkwardly sprawled by Chief Vick's chair.

Feeling the tension in the air, Chief Vick's lips pursed, and she leaned forward to regard Shawn, who was in any case still caught looking at Lassiter.

"I don't know how you heard about this, Spencer—"

"Permission to have this man taken from the building until further notice?" Lassiter interrupted, voice hard, and Shawn flinched in confusion, drawing himself halfway up from his sprawl.

Chief Vick seemed to actively deliberate over this, and Shawn's curiosity grew further. What the hell was going on here?

"No, I don't think that will be necessary, Detective." The two nodded gravely at each other, a nod meant as a dismissal on Chief Vick's part. Lassiter made no move to leave, however, and Chief Vick turned her attention back to Shawn, who was now sitting cross-legged and sharp on her floor.

"Go home, Spencer. The force will be in touch when we're in need of your services." Shawn moved to argue, and Lassiter stepped forward, one hand under Shawn's arm, propelling him upward.

"You heard the Chief, Spencer." Shawn had no choice but to allow himself to be lead out of the office, but outside it he dragged his arm away, feeling it for bruising.

"I have to go get my cake" he hissed in explanation as Lassiter moved forward threateningly, as if ready to bodily throw him from the building. The head detective paused, crumpled slightly, as if remembering something. He paused, licked his lips, then turned away.

"Fine. Go get your cake. But then you're leaving." Shawn nodded, not really ready to tangle with a Lassiter seemingly intent on destroying him. He'd never felt unsafe in Lassiter's presence before; the head detective liked to pretend to loathe him, but Shawn had thought there had been a comfortable sort of professional relationship growing between them. Now…

He turned his back to the other only hesitantly, making his way back to Lassiter's desk where he'd left his cake, good spirits somewhat deflated by the toes of Lassiter's boots, which kept catching the back of his sneakers the other was walking so close.

He stopped suddenly as he reached the other's desk, causing the other to crash into him. Lassiter made to yell something at him, but Shawn beat him to it, rounding on the other. Something was conspicuously absent.

"My cake! It's gone." Furrowed brow, and he turned back, looking under the desk as if expecting it to have hidden from him deliberately.

"What the hell? Who even does that?"

End Chapter 1

What is going on at the precinct? Why is Lassiter being so creepy? Where is Shawn's cake? All these questions and more answered—soon. I'm writing this story for my girlfriend's birthday, which is October 21st, so I predict this will be completed at a fairly steady pace.


	2. Stealthilicious

It's Your Party, You Can Die If You Want To

Written by: Oni-Baka

Chapter 2—Stealthilicious

Feet propped on the desk in front of him, sneakers tossed aside beside him, Shawn set about picking apart the pastry in his lap, digging out chunks of mango and popping them into his mouth. His eyes were glazed, looking through the computer screen propped before him. A google image search list was left open on the monitor, a number of hands depicted in various grisly positions along with the several completely unrelated images that always turned up on such searches—a duck with an afro; a porcelain bull painted to look like fire; it went on.

He hummed slightly, somewhat contemplatively, fingernail digging into the soft chocolate shell of the scone, distractedly seeking a sliver of pineapple.

It was clear he simply didn't have enough information—not even enough for an elementary guess. It was also clear he wasn't going to be allowed to go about forcing his way into the case as he usually did. He needed a new tactic. He needed to be sneaky. He needed to be stealth—Gus stealth, only better. His lips twitched as he formed the word in his mind—stealthilicious. That's what he needed to be.

It occurred to him briefly that he should just let this whole case go; that he should pull out before he got too far in, before the SBPD decided he was too much of a liability, that he couldn't take instructions, that he was a risk. And maybe it was too dangerous for a civilian to work this case; though Shawn didn't really consider himself a civilian in the traditional sense.

And it wasn't so much that Shawn ignored that voice, those concerns, out of hand; he simply assumed, not too erroneously he imagined (due to his history), that if necessary he could pull back from a bad situation. He assumed that he was intelligent enough to recognize the moment he would be putting himself in unnecessary danger, and he trusted that his friends and contacts were such that he would be safe were he to fall.

He assumed these protections, and so he bypassed with little mental distress the idea that he had already been warned away. Getting out was easy. Getting in, on the other hand…

"That had best not be my double chocolate mango-pineapple scone." Gus's voice snapped Shawn out of his thoughts (such as they were), and he lifted the twisted remains of the scone to his mouth demonstratively, chewing slowly, appreciative sounds coming from his throat as he chewed.

"I know you didn't just do that" Gus continued.

"I drove forty minutes for that scone; I've been looking forward to it all day."

Through the mouthful, Shawn answered, brushing off his jeans.

"Gus, something has to make up for my missing birthday cake, or how am I to deal with the trauma?" he exclaimed, spraying delicious crumbs. Taken aback, Gus raised one expressive eyebrow.

"I have no idea what you just said" he responded in semi-affectionate frustration, closing the door behind him.

"And get your nasty feet off my desk. I have to work on that." Shawn rocked back in Gus's chair with a groan and wiggled his toes.

"But I was airing my toesies" he cooed in a ridiculously childish voice, starting slightly when Gus made to come over a tad more quickly than he'd expected. Jumpy. He was still jumpy.

"Why are you here, Shawn?" Gus asked, and something in the impatience evident in Gus's voice grated at Shawn, reminding him of Lassiter.

"Why can't anyone be happy to see me?" he wondered, pushing on the desk so that the rolling chair whirled him around in a slow circle.

"It's my birthday, Gus. You should be celebrating me. That's all I ask—" the chair came to a stop so that Shawn was facing his friend again.

"Are you celebrating me, Gus? I would have to say no." Gus's other eyebrow rose skeptically.

"You ate my scone."

Shawn exploded from the chair, pacing on his side of the desk.

"Are you still on that? That was so long ago."

"It was thirty seconds ago, Shawn. I can still smell it." Gus tapped his nose, and the two simply looked at each for a moment.

"Besides" Gus continued

"if I wasn't 'celebrating' you, Shawn, I wouldn't have agreed for a third, ill-fated, against-my-better-inclinations trip to the Mexican border, again, even after what happened last time."

Shawn pursed his lips, hands coming together in a praying position.

"Point." Gus inclined his head.

"About that—I'm thinking maybe another time. We have more important plans for tonight." Gus did something like a double-take.

"What?"

"Yeah. You see, we have to be somewhere else."

"Where?" Shawn winced, turning away.

"Not sure yet." Gus's expression transformed, knowing the direction this was going in.

"Uh-huh. And—this wouldn't have anything to do with a new case, would it?" Shawn grinned.

"In a sense."

"A sense." Gus crossed his arms, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

"You see, we'll be on this case, except—no one in the police department can know about it. Especially not Lassy. And I don't know anything about it." Gus's eyebrows rose impossibly higher.

"Sounds great. A case we have no information on, won't be paid for, and can't let anyone ever know about. Sign me up." Shawn came forward, clasping Gus's hands with his own.

"You know, I was hoping you would say that. I need to use your little blue car to trail Lassy for information-gathering purposes." Gus shook his head quickly, backing away.

"I wasn't serious, Shawn. This is an awful idea."

"We don't even know if he's going anywhere near a crime scene, Gus. Please, just for this once? Please? It's my birthday." Gus still looked unconvinced, so Shawn added

"I won't make you go to Mexico." A shift in expression, and Gus broke away with a sigh.

"Fine, just for tonight. And only because I never want to go near Tequila ever again." Shawn jumped, both hands in the air, ecstatic.

"But if I get arrested because of you, it's not cool, Shawn."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

The both of them ducked automatically as Lassiter came out of the police station, heading for a non-descript, almost painfully-plain red vehicle, looking as strained as Shawn had ever seen him. The detective peeled out of the parking lot at a pace Shawn wouldn't have expected, having always assumed Lassiter would be the type to drive to the very letter of the law.

"Okay, drive" Shawn whispered, well aware how ridiculous it was to whisper when they'd just seen Lassiter drive away. Without picking themselves up, Gus pushed down on the gas pedal, and the car moved slowly forward, Gus barely peeking over the steering wheel.

"Faster than a tortoise, Gus, if you please" Shawn hissed, watching Lassiter turn right onto the highway. A scuffle ensued, and eventually Gus straightened and pressed down on the gas, following at a steady, though stealthy, clip.

Only fifteen minutes later, Lassiter pulled into a parallel parking spot in downtown Santa Barbara, next to a tourist trap surfer shop proclaiming 'cheap palm and tarot reading by Madame Bargussi.' An alarm went off in Shawn's mind, and he hissed for Gus to park a while away, rolling out of the car Mission Impossible style, Gus crab-walking behind a pole nearby.

"We look ridiculous" Gus hissed as they came to rest behind the building, crouched by the dumpster.

"Down" Shawn ordered, and the both of them flattened themselves against the dumpster at the exact moment Lassiter chose to go inside the store, jingling bells announcing his arrival inside.

"Now what?" Gus muttered, peeling a rotting bit of banana off his sleeve.

"We don't even know why he's here. Maybe he just wants to buy a new bathing suit."

"Think he's a banana hammock kind of guy?" Shawn wondered, making himself comfortable against the gritty wall.

"That's disgusting" Gus answered, trying very hard to think of anything else.

"Lassy's not here to buy" Shawn contended, pulling his Gameboy out of his pocket and switching it on.

"I recognize the name on the palm reader's sign. Bargussi. No, this is a crime scene." Starting a new game, Shawn set about guiding what appeared to be a poorly-constructed space ship through a series of obstacles.

"And now?" Gus asked, after a few moments of silence.

"Now we wait until Lassy leaves. Then we go see for ourselves."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

It took less than ten minutes to render Shawn irrevocably, twitchingly bored. His Gameboy didn't help; the idea that he was waiting in an alleyway after dark did nothing. In the end, he resorted to playing "I Spy" with Gus for over an hour.

"How long does it take to go over a crime scene?" Shawn finally expelled, mostly to himself, glancing out into the street. Everything had been quiet outside for over half an hour now. All the stores were closed, including the one Lassiter had gone into; the vendors were gone, even the late-night couples wandering and pawing at each other had moved to their respective bedrooms.

"Oh. My. Fucking. God" Shawn suddenly shrieked, startling Gus out of the half-asleep state he had been in.

"Wha--?"

"Lassy's car!" They both turned to look automatically. They'd taken the car so much for granted, as part of the landscape, something neither of them would use in "I Spy" in light of its being too obvious.

It was gone.

"How long has he--?" Gus started, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Dude, we are the worst secret spies ever!" Shawn cut in, standing quickly.

"Let's go." For once, they were in apparent agreement, and the two slunk to the storefront in question, oozing inside after only a moment's hesitation as they found the door locked for the night. Sometimes, Gus's shady lockpicking skills were damn useful.

There was no need to search for a crime scene. The small store had only a couple shelves filled with tacky beach gear, easily rendered unimportant by the streams of police tape that lined the even smaller staircase that presumably led up to Madame Bargussi's palm reading stand.

Shawn stepped over the police tape, nostrils open and eyes open wide to allow them to more quickly adjust to the darkness that grew darker as the two of them ascended. He stopped before the door, which was slightly ajar, sniffing deeply. The smell of incense was strong, thick, covering up any other smell that might have been a clue. Sweet, cloying, it made the air thick enough to feel as it slid into his lungs, and only reluctantly did Shawn push the door carefully open further, coughing slightly into the dark.

Light streamed in through a side window dramatically half-covered in tattered purple curtains. The room was painted dark, dark blue, accented in mystical-seeming patterns drawn on freehand in silver and gold. The only furniture in the room, a small, cheap table, was smashed on its side, one of its two legs broken off.

As Shawn continued to sweep his eyes over the room, his eyes caught on the sad lump crumpled in one corner. He was sure he'd seen it the moment Gus did, for there was a sharp exhalation behind him, along with a slight, girly whimper. He leaned forward rather than go any closer. It was light enough in the room with the moonlight and the light of the street light conveniently right outside.

There was the purple nail polish, the holes…clean through, and on both sides. Her shoes had been removed, letting him see that her toes had been painted silver, and that her feet were crushed, a similar piercing digging wide holes through the meat of both feet. Her arms were splayed, and Shawn felt an immediate, awful rush of realization as he recognized the pose.

In addition to being stigmatized, there was an unnatural length jutting from the woman's head; the missing leg of the table, sharpened and stabbed through her forehead. His mind supplied the word reluctantly: 'staked.'

A pool of blood, spray on the walls presumably from the woman's thrashing. Partly in an effort to keep himself from vomiting, or perhaps screaming, Shawn drew his gaze to other details, catching on the other painfully obvious detail of this murder. A message, written in what was absolutely blood, drawn directly from the pool of blood by the victim's left hand.

_**Matthew 10:34**_

Shawn shuddered, moving slightly forward, ignoring the panicked sounds he could hear coming from Gus behind him, assuming his friend was, like him, trying to hold onto his gag reflex.

Then the hand squeezed his shoulder, and he could feel the heat of breath on his neck.

Every muscle in him tensed, and he was certain he heard a familiar voice breath "I knew it." He jerked, trying to scramble away, and thus was already falling when Lassiter's fist connected with his jaw.

End Chapter 2

Thanks for reading so far—it looks like we might be in for a long haul, you and I. My muse has informed me this story will be no less than ten chapters.


	3. Say It Don't Spray It

It's Your Party, You Can Die If You Want to

Written by: Oni-Baka

Chapter 3—Say It Don't Spray It

Shawn's first thought upon hitting the ground was that he was now disturbingly close to a stigmatized corpse. His head snapped back, and without his consent his eyes caught on a detail of the woman's body he had missed before; he wouldn't have noticed it from any position other than the one Shawn found himself in, on his back staring up at the victim. There were a series of already fading red marks, not pressed into the skin even enough to form a bruise.

The back of Shawn's head slammed into the ground, and as his vision went white for a split second he put the marks together, pulling the seemingly contorted indentations into a single shape—what looked like a warped T. Then Gus, voice an octave higher than most post-pubescent men could comfortably reach, broke his concentration, and Shawn became very aware of the throbbing in his jaw. He was equally aware of Lassiter, leaning over him and dragging him to his feet.

"Stand" Lassiter demanded when Shawn made no motion to comply, dead weight. It occurred to Shawn that this was probably the voice Lassiter used on perps, the Angry Voice with a capital A. His feet bent and held his weight without him consciously commanding them to, and he lurched forward with noodle-like resistance as he was leant forward, arms dragged behind his back.

It wasn't until he felt the metal on his wrists that he realized what was happening. Gus seemed to be vibrating in the background, loyalty for his best friend warring with an upbringing that demanded he respect officers of the law.

"Woah woah, Lassy, cuffs, really?" Shawn exclaimed, opening his mouth wide and cracking his jaw when the words didn't come out with the right degree of incredulity.

The handcuffs closing with an unmistakable series of clicks was as final an answer as he could have gotten, and he automatically tested the strength, a fool's move that strained his shoulders.

"What are you—"

A firm hand on his shoulder again, moving him forward. Lassiter turned to Gus, seeming to deliberate over the problem he caused and the single pair of handcuffs he had on him. Perhaps Gus's wide eyes and unmoving stature were enough to convince Lassiter Gus wasn't about to run off, for he merely nodded ahead of him.

"Come with me" he demanded in that same Angry voice, and just as Shawn's legs had, Gus rushed to obey, allowing himself to be led down the stairs and away from the corpse.

"And why doesn't he get cuffed, hmm?" Shawn wondered as he was nearly guided into a streetlamp, swerving barely. He vaguely wondered where they were going, remembering belatedly that it was because Lassiter's car had left the scene that they had thought it was okay to go onto the crime scene in the first place.

There was no answer to his question except for a tightening of the hold on his shoulder, Lassiter's boots once again biting at his heels. He and Gus shared a look as his friend pulled up beside him, neither quite sure what to make of this. Sure, technically it was a crime to interfere with a crime scene, but they'd never been bothered with that law before, and besides—it was very obvious Lassiter had been expecting them.

The three of them turned (or rather, two of them were led) around a corner, and there was Lassiter's car— that awful Crown Vic, not a squad car, cleverly hidden just out of range.

"You were hiding from us?" Shawn murmured, turning to Gus.

"He is so much better as a secret spy" he continued to his friend, Gus giving him a look that clearly stated that now was not the time for such things.

"I'm a detective, not a spy, Spencer" Lassiter gritted out as he motioned Gus into the back seat, ignoring Shawn's cries of "shotgun!" and shoving him inside too, without rapping his head against the frame first this time.

"Going to buckle me in tight?" Shawn asked, trying to fill the silence as well as shift into a position that didn't ram the metal cuffs into the small of his back. He eventually leaned himself over on his side, head roughly in Gus's lap, attempting to pull the cuffs to the front of his body by way of pulling them through his legs. He'd seen criminals do it before, as well as dozens of movie villains, and yet he couldn't quite seem to get the necessary bend in his back, and so eventually he resigned himself to lying still, despite Gus's twitching at their proximity.

"I think we're good enough friends to put this behind us" he chirped as the car started, Lassiter ignoring the both of them from the front of the car.

"Your head is in my lap, Shawn." Then the car started forward, and Shawn nearly rolled to the front, barely saved from tumbling to the floor by Gus grabbing him around the middle.

"And now we're cuddling—is this where we start talking about our feelings?"

"If you could sit up like a normal person—"

Lassiter interrupted, bringing them both to silence.

"I'll remind the both of you that you have the right to be silent." The words rolled off his tongue with the ease of long practice.

"Anything—and I do mean anything, Spencer—you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You might wish to take that into account, perhaps for the first time in your tiny lives."

The both of them stared toward the front, similar expressions of disbelief on their faces, slowly turned toward each other.

"Tell me the truth, Gus—did you run over Lassy's mommy on the way to work this morning?"

"No, I don't believe so. Did you?" Shawn sighed.

"Did you, Gus? Really, that's all you could add to the discussion. Did you?" The car slammed to a sudden stop, and despite Gus's best efforts Shawn slammed forward with it, ear somehow catching the safety lock, forehead pressing into the window.

Legs now stuck somewhere under one of the seats, it took several more seconds to pull Shawn back into his previous position.

"Was that really necessary?" Gus snapped at the front seat as the car started moving again.

"Stop light" was all Lassiter said, and Shawn and Gus spent the remainder of the journey in uncomfortable silence, Shawn cracking his joints one by one.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"—incapable of recognizing his limits as a civilian." It was still something of a mystery to Shawn exactly how he had ended up here, handcuffed next to his best friend being thoroughly dressed down in Chief Vick's office in the middle of the night. It was clear that the chief clearly thought there were more important things Lassiter could have been doing with his time, and that her own was being duly wasted. It struck Shawn as odd that at—he approximated one thirty in the morning, there would be as many officers present as were still in the office. He had counted a fair number of bodies in desks, and his respect for the SBPD (as well as his distaste for ever including himself among their number) grew incrementally.

Chief Vick herself was firmly planted in her desk, despite the newborn baby waiting for her (or perhaps because of it), several Styrofoam cups of coffee lying on their side along her desk's edge, rims smeared with lipstick that had come off of her mouth probably hours ago.

"Detective Lassiter" Vick started, voice long-suffering

"while I can appreciate your enthusiasm for civilian safety on a theoretical level, surely you have more important considerations than these two buffoons—" Shared sheepish smiles, and Shawn rattled his handcuffs encouragingly.

"not to say that I condone any of their actions and won't hold them to the full letter of the law for their indiscretion." The smiles faded slightly.

"If this were any other case" Lassiter started, and it was clear from the sudden rapport between the two of them that this meant something

"believe me, I wouldn't have given these two a second glance—" All of this secret, decoder ring nonsense talk immediately began to grate on Shawn; it reminded him of elementary school, even most of middle school, where adults did nothing but condescend, speaking in code around their students to keep their little minds from imploding due to stilted self esteem. It reminded him of his father, patting his shoulder and promising him he would understand when he was ready. It was such a shit sentiment, the code and veiled speak simple egoism…

Lassiter continued to talk around him, clipped, professional voice gaining in volume as the head detective hit his stride.

"but in the current circumstances, I don't think it's unreasonable for me to recommend that the station takes action to ensure that these two will not be allowed any access to this case." Gus stiffened at his side, and Shawn had to wonder what his friend thought that could mean.

"So tell me" Chief Vick mused, peering into one empty coffee cup as if hoping the dregs would miraculously re-form into more coffee.

"What kind of action do you feel would be necessary?" Shawn cleared his throat demonstratively, and for once Gus looked entirely on his side, suitably disturbed by the word 'action.'

"Can I offer a little—snippet, a tidbit if you would?" Shawn proffered.

"I recommend holding them indefinitely" Lassiter interrupted, sounding supremely satisfied with the idea.

"That's illegal" Gus shouted at the same time Chief Vick cut in with

"You realize that would be completely unethical."

Gus continued, with his seemingly inexhaustible pool of information on California precedent: "The prevailing rule under the Fourth Amendment that searches and seizures may not be made without a warrant is subject to various exceptions. One of them permits warrantless searches incident to custodial arrests, Chimel v. California, in 1969; however, these seizures have traditionally been justified by the reasonableness of searching for weapons. Turn out your pockets, Shawn, are you carrying any weapons?" Shawn coughed, trying to indicate his shackled arms.

"Not to burst your trivia bubble there—"

"Perhaps you'd like to re-think your recommendation, detective?" Chief Vick suggested, eyelids heavy with an oncoming headache.

Lassiter's lips twitched further downward, brow creasing even more deeply. He seemed to deliberate, a pregnant pause growing as he stared at Gus rather than Shawn, the pharmaceutical salesman shrinking as the moments progressed, Lassiter apparently going through California law in his head.

"I take back my first recommendation, and apologize to you, Chief, for first suggesting it. I admit I was somewhat" he coughed

"overly zealous in my initial application of the law. I would follow with a recommendation to see these two be monitored by a police presence for the duration of the investigation." He started slowly, as if deciding as he spoke what he was going to say.

"This will have the dual purpose of keeping them safe, and ensuring that their prying will not interfere with what, you will agree, is a particularly volatile and delicate case." Shawn's lips thinned further, and it was clear he resented being so deliberately left in the dark. He let his head fall down, and for a bare moment it looked as if he were submitting to the law in its strict and specific application. He slumped forward, shoulders rolling to their slackest extent while being forced still to remain behind his back by the cuffs.

Chief Vick relaxed, seeming to find this a more palatable solution. A hint of tension left the sharp angle of Lassiter's back.

Then Shawn started speaking in tongues.

Obviously taking his cue from the Exorcist, Shawn pitched his voice low and guttural, the effect only minimally less startling on a full grown man than it had been on a young girl. Nonsense words, with bits of sense in between, slipped in as notes he had taken from the scene. Moon, apostle, tassel, chipped paint, shards of glass, beams of light. Vague enough to be nearly anything, specific enough to address the case at hand. Why was he doing this?

Not sheer stubbornness, or a disregard for the law (as many would have guessed); more than simple curiosity (strong enough to lead to many of his 'episodes') was the more prevailing bitterness that, frankly, had lead him to stay far away from Santa Barbara for most of his life. If there was one thing he could not stand it was this sort of for-your-own-good egoism. His father's main mode of existence, exactly what had driven him from his home at sixteen. Not being able to deal with this particular brand of condescension, popular among store managers and even customers in some fields, had led him to be fired from countless jobs, thrown out of various establishments, and banned from a select number of houses.

It hadn't yet led to him being arrested, but there was a time for everything, it seemed.

"The spirit—the wandering ghost of Stephanie Bargussi—she's here, in this room, telling me everything I need to know about this case" he informed, keeping it simpler, curter, than usual.

A wild guess from looking at the scene, from the station's paranoia, as big as he could guess, for sheer shock value.

"She's telling me about her killer—"

"Someone shut him up!" Lassiter's voice was urging, an uncanny note of panic in it that Shawn didn't bother to notice.

"Yes, she's being very clear, uncommonly clear." His eyes closed, and he evaded Lassiter coming toward him by scooting around behind Gus, using his friend as a human shield (to the other's chagrin).

"She didn't know him; no, but he knew her. Knew of her. This wasn't personal, no; it was some sort of zealot." That much was obvious enough.

Gus gave a sort of nervous whinny as Shawn crouched behind him.

"He killed her because of what she was—because she was a fortuneteller." This would have been better if he'd known the bible passage that had been quoted, but he hadn't been to church in—approximately a decade, and it might be a while before he was able to wikepedia it.

"He knew exactly what he was doing, like he'd done it before—and he's going to strike again. Soon. Very soon." That was heading into the realm of wild guess.

"And close. In the realm beyond Stephanie can feel her killer, can feel him gathering himself—"A hand clamped over his mouth, a puerile move he hadn't expected from Lassiter.

He spoke through it, words barely audible as the head detective pressed down, not seeming to notice or care that he was covering Shawn's nose as well and he couldn't exactly breathe.

Footsteps approaching the chief's room, and Shawn took his chance, screaming "Now! He's striking now!" just as the door opened, a nice trick that always seemed suitably impressive.

Buzz McNab, exhausted but buzzing with adrenaline. Lassiter's hand twitched, and Shawn wondered for a moment what the other's expression was; he couldn't see it from his current position.

"Chief! It's definitely him—our killer's struck again."

Lightheaded elation; they couldn't keep him off the case now.

End Chapter 3

Note—I just want to apologize for this taking approximately 14 times as long as all the other chapters. My bad. Also, I think I could benefit from a beta reader. On a positive note, Chapter 4 is almost completely done?

Oh. And I promise something slash-like will happen soon—next chapter if I can wrangle it. Scout's honor.


	4. Holy Frijoles, Batman!

CHAPTER Four—Holy Frijoles, Batman! It's Jesus!

Note—A brief apology: I guess this is almost—a year now. Life does some weird shit, let me say. Blink, and suddenly you're alone in Italy, and it's almost your girlfriend's birthday again. Let me make it up to you with some self-indulgent Shassy, ne? Also—is it just me, or did the last episodes before the current season ended suck pretty hard? …Pirates? Really?

Also, thanks to everyone who gave constructive criticism/reviewed in general. Not sure if any of you are still around, but I found the advice on my dialogue helpful, so thanks, and a fan of Shassy is a friend of mine.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The past few hours had been a blur, and eventually Shawn had tuned out the screaming matches. It was just approaching dawn, and Gus was softly snoring at his side, a tiny strand of drool leaking out the side of his mouth closest to Shawn. His friend's head was bobbing, and Shawn scooted away slightly, aware that sooner or later that head was going to fall onto his shoulder, and he was going to get Gus-drool all down his front.

He was still awake, himself, out of sheer stubbornness. Lassiter, the chief, Jules, and all the other lesser known forces of the police department--they'd all been through this room in the last two hours, summoned first by Lassiter's yelling, and then Chief Vick's insistence. Brandishing a notepad and her badge, Chief Vick had taken Lassiter into the hall about a half an hour ago, her eyes tired of this and demanding obedience. Shawn would have followed, at a fair clip, but of course no one had thought to remove his handcuffs. And so he was cuffed to Gus, still, his back to the door, leaving him with no way to sneak a peek at the hallway and get some sense of what was going on around him. He waited in a vacuum, time passing several times more slowly than usual…man, his jaw hurt. Lassy hadn't had to hit him…

Gus's head lolled, and Shawn watched him with grim fascination, leaning away just a little bit more. His wrist ached at the motion, and he blinked down at it, knowing what he'd find. Really. Cuff bites. He'd never be able to explain this to his father.

Gus's head was almost touching his shoulder when the door burst open again (finally, Shawn contested), and Chief Vick strolled into his line of sight, her features drawn but triumphant.

"You're on the case, Mr. Spencer. Be here at 8 am tomorrow, and someone will fill you in." Gus's head snapped up, woken by the voices, and he looked around blearily, balance off, dragging.

"Chief—" Shawn started, his voice thick, thicker than he'd expected. He must be more tired than he thought; his whole body recoiled at the idea of 8 in the morning. That must be—what? A couple hours from now?

"Not now, Mr. Spencer. I'll see you tomorrow at 8. We can talk then."

Shawn gave an exaggerated, embarrassed little cough.

"No, that's not it—" He arched his spine, bringing his and Gus's hands into view and rattling them both demonstratively.

"If you don't mind…" The Chief's mouth came open slightly, a hand coming up to rub at a twitching vein on one temple.

"He cuffed you." Her voice was dry, already knowing the answer. Her eyes widened slightly, and she peered at Shawn's face, looking scandalized.

"Did he--?" She gestured at his face, and Shawn had to wonder what he looked like.

He covered for Lassiter reflexively, making a dismissive noise.

"What, this?" he exclaimed, and he would have rubbed the spot had he been able.

"Naw, I got this playing racquetball with Gus earlier. Gus, tell the Chief about your mean serve…"

"God, what am I going to do with him…" Looking like she was about to groan, or fall over where she stood, Chief Vick turned back to the door, steps trudging.

"I am really…very sorry about this, Mr. Spencer. I don't what's gotten into him." Something of a lie in her tone, more obvious through the veil of sleep. Shawn acknowledged it with a nod, mind churning sluggishly. Too early in the morning for this…too late. Either one.

A couple more minutes of flexing his toes and trading heavy-eyed glances with Gus, and Lassiter himself was in the doorway. He looked, if possible, worse than before. His face, pale and blotchy, those hound eyes staring down at Shawn's hands with visible reluctance. He came over, movements mechanical, to release the cuffs, and as he bent over Shawn's torso there was an unmistakable smell issuing from him. Not alcohol; that would have been in-character, though very unprofessional. No, nicotine. The man reeked of it, filling Shawn's nostrils with the aftermath of sweat and sweet smoke when he inhaled too quickly, metal releasing and twinging on nerves.

But Lassiter didn't smoke.

Not a word for them, and the detective was already sweeping out of the room, taking his cuffs with him.

"See you—tomorrow, Lassy" Shawn croaked, more to test this new, unreadable Lassiter than anything else. Had he been abducted?

Lassiter didn't bother to turn around; that hadn't changed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two pots of coffee and half a box of glazed doughnuts later, and Shawn was resigned to the idea that sugar high and twitching with caffeine was the closest he was going to get to human until he got at least a few more hours of sleep. It made him feel old, old in a way that might have brought panic into his throat, to realize he couldn't just pull an all-nighter out of nowhere anymore. It bore notice that the all-nighter in question hadn't been his idea, and he'd spent the time handcuffed to the dead weight of his best friend, but still--the panic, too, was pushed aside until he'd had a bit more sleep, replaced with a lazy, tired grin.

It was now 8:17 o clock in the morning. Gus had left hours ago when the two had been released (presumably to sleep), promising to call him later so Shawn could fill him in on their new case. Shawn couldn't quite blame his friend for ditching him; friendship only went so far, and while this hadn't been as bad as Mexico it also hadn't exactly been their best night.

He'd had his own peek at the real case file now, Chief Vick having set up everything so he could see it as promised, and he trusted his mind to hold onto the details perfectly; just like any other time.

The information that interested him most was this—Bargussi wasn't the first killing involved in this case; not by a long shot.

Jules had been right. This case was bad—too bad for the sunny streets of Santa Barbara. Something like this—a shiver went down his spine as he acknowledged the words 'serial killer,' and applied them to this case. This was a serial killer, and the MO was even clearer now that he'd seen the pictures, four altogether with Madame Bargussi.

The stigmata was there, in various forms, dug into each of the victims. The variations were slight, but different enough to be—possibly meaningful. No one was really sure, and there were theories pasted all over the pictures. One victim, an older gentleman who had 'read auras' (whatever that meant), had not had his feet crushed like Bargussi, but was missing several toes. Another woman had all of her toes, but had had her torso stripped and a long line carved into her ribs (the police marked the biblical passage where a Roman soldier had scored Jesus's side similarly). The third was perfectly intact (excepting the stigmata and the staking, of course…), but had had her hair shorn off. The latest case was the only one that had contained a message, the biblical passage Matthew 10:34. There it was; someone had looked it up, saving him the trouble:

" Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword."

And wasn't that just creepy as all hell? Given all this information at the start, Shawn might have conceded that this really wasn't the kind of thing that psychic detectives should be involved in. Childhood-warped police dog he was, starter of urban legends and purveyor of tricky schemes, certainly—but this case reeked of creepy death, and the thought of going near it made his civilian skin crawl.

All the same, equal to that horrified feeling was a certain fascination, a thrill, that this was undoubtedly the most important project he had touched so far. Yes, he'd helped the police department find a diamond worth a mint, found missing people and even solved the occasional murder. But help he could give on this case…that could actually save people. Maybe a lot of people. It was almost…noble. Or something.

There was a small scuffle outside, and Shawn recognized the sound of Jules and Lassiter speaking, though they seemed to be taking some care to whisper. He turned his chair to face the door, leaning back on it and slurping distractedly at the third soda can he'd rescued from the pen vending machine in the last half an hour or so. The door started to open, paused only a slice open, and Shawn had the odd feeling someone was peering in, like a child playing hide and go seek.

The door closed again, more scuffling, and Shawn had time to fold his hands in his lap imperiously before the two actually entered. Jules must have been the peeker; her cheeks were slightly pink, her usually cheerful face pinched.

"Alright, Carlton, you were right, but it's not like he's looking at something we haven't been staring at for the past three weeks…"

Carlton followed after her, stiff as a cardboard cutout of a scruffy detective. His mouth was open, ready to follow with a likely biting comment—but a look at Shawn and the comment was swallowed. Shawn looked him over, ready for the man to look like hell, considering he'd gotten as little sleep as Shawn had. But, surprisingly, Lassy looked—better, if not good. Something had happened to make him clean up a little. He'd obviously had a shower, for one, which had done wonders. He hadn't shaved, but had changed his shirt and tie, both of which were crisply tucked into his pants, also clean. He looked surly but, as Shawn noted to himself, didn't he always? He tested the waters, a comment of the kind he would usually make, a little hesitant given the man's rather quick hook before.

"Sleep well, Lassy? I gotta say, that second hour? Too much. I couldn't keep my eyes closed that long. How about you?"

Jules tensed, obviously expecting something bad, but Lassiter merely smiled, a bare lifting of one side of his mouth, stepping into the room and peering at the pictures on the walls.

"I am perfectly awake, Spencer. If it's too much for you to go without sleep, I suggest you go to the Chief and suggest to be taken off this case" Lassiter remarked simply. The weird part was—that actually sounded like a teasing suggestion, rather than an actual comment. Shawn's eyebrows rose curiously, and he leaned back further in his seat, inwardly shrugging. Okay…

Juliet looked surprised too, but quickly masked it, clearing her throat.

"The, uh, Chief Vick told us to bring you with us to the new crime scene" Jules informed, still watching Lassiter out of the corner of her vision rather obviously, as Shawn was. Lassiter stood under the obvious observation stoically, straightening his tie casually as Juliet spoke.

"You'll probably be with us for…most of the case actually" Juliet continued, when it didn't seem Lassiter was going to jump in. "Police escort, and all that." Her eyes turned apologetic.

"Police escort" Shawn repeated, remembering something about that from the early part of last night.

"Shall I blow up the guest bed?"

End chapter

Next chapter—the new crime scene, some disturbing information, and a moment between Shawn and Lassy.


	5. This Only Happens In Bad Movies

CHAPTER FIVE—This Only Happens in Bad Movies

By

Oni-Baka

Nota Bene—Since the episode "Lassie did a bad, bad thing," I now know the correct way to spell our favorite detective's nickname. Consider me informed.

XXXXXXXXXX

The squad car clinked lightly as it sped over the uneven, constantly-being-repaired roads of Santa Barbara. The noise was audible only because of the uncomfortable silence within, disturbed by neither word nor radio.

In his head, Shawn murmured the chortling lyrics of some pop princess's torch song. He'd momentarily waved a white flag at the silence; his first attempts to break it had been unpleasant, to say the least. His fault. Lassiter had looked—normal, the kind of normal that put up with the everpresent chatter that made up Shawn's world. He'd looked ready enough for the kind of jibes that would loosen everyone up, that had done so much good throughout Shawn's life in unclenching the asses of those around him without actually saying anything directly soothing or sentimental. His first comment, something small (flirtatious nothings, shot in Juliet's direction), and Lassiter brought the squad car to a screeching stop.

Nothing else. Just stopped. His face was neutral, lacking even that everpresent scowl, and they'd sat there in silence until Shawn had stopped, and then for a few minutes more. Juliet, apparently knowing the drill or being somewhat better at reading the mild cant to Lassiter's lips, had stayed just as silent, her cheeks red. And eventually the car had started again toward the crime scene, driving just a bit too quickly, taking risks Shawn wouldn't have expected.

And so he'd stayed silent for the better part of twenty minutes before his inner voice began to snarl at him, asking what exactly he thought Lassiter was going to do, turn this car around like this was a family vacation and Shawn the naughty son?

Unwilling to be intimidated (especially by Lassiter, of all people), Shawn switched tactics, turning similar phrases on Lassiter, inviting the man to take out his frustration on him, release it so the three of them could get on with their lives—nothings, flirtations, shameless compliments.

Shawn was notably relieved to find that –these- the detective would react to, first with the dripping insults that marked their relationship (and to which Shawn responded with relief and even more overdone flirtations). It developed into a kind of banter, Shawn leaning forward in his seat, cooing near-obscenities at this point to match the tempo of Lassiter's increasingly more violent threats and promises.

He leaned more pointedly forward, scooting up to the edge of his seat and against the driving detective's, far enough to lay his arms on the detective's shoulders. Knowing the man was of uncertain temperament, Shawn played a kind of chicken with himself as he kneaded lightly, grinning and murmuring something inane like "promises, promises" in response to Lassiter's promise to eviscerate him if he didn't stop talking –right now.- The car jumped slightly over a bump in the road, and lips brushed against the detective's ear, catching there momentarily.

In the midst of answering verbally, Lassiter stiffened impossibly under his fingers, a stone caricature of a man, and the words melted from him. Indeed, from that moment he fell into sudden, sullen silence. Shawn lingered for a moment, testing the quality of that silence, the meaning of which lingered tantalizingly just out of reach, and finally he leaned back quietly.

Minutes later, they arrived at the scene, and Shawn pulled himself from the backseat, lazily marking and noting the building they pulled up to, still swarming with uniformed men and lined with curious, thrill-seeking civilians.

Where the last scene had been a shack on the fringe of Santa Barbara itself, impoverished and set off in the middle of nowhere, this one loomed in the reputable suburbs of Goleta. A dull, blue-grey building, the only detail to mark this establishment from the optometrists and insurance companies that filled the other buildings was a small, metallic plaque marked only by a stylized, curliqued eye. The symbol struck a note, and Shawn began searching through the reels of his memory for a match, even as the three of them moved under the yellow tape and into the building, Shawn reflexively smiling at a pretty young local who seemed suitably impressed by the fact that no one moved forward to stop him.

Moving into the sterilized silver box of an office building elevator, Shawn remembered, even as he noted the way Lassiter shied away from him, pointedly moving to the other side of the elevator. Shawn idylly thought to move to the other side, see if he could make Lassiter move again (what was wrong with the man –now?-), even as a television commercial played in his head. In it, a man bedecked in a velvet purple suit laughed heartily at his tv audience, and behind him an elephant floated in mid-air, its long trunk waving uncomfortably at the unnatural affront.

A famous local magician, though now a bit past his prime, Shawn could remember taking a girl there at one point in his ill-spent youth, searching fingers moving into her lap as the man brought great plumes of red smoke and formed them into a line of dancing rabbits…

Thus prepared for what he'd find, Shawn barely reacted as the three of them moved past a pair of smudged glass doors emblazoned with the same stylized eye. What a place for a magician to work…perhaps this was some kind of—agent? Some poor, bedraggled accountant left to crunch numbers for all the foppery and decoration that came with being a professional magician?

Following a grim-faced officer into what appeared to be a file room, Shawn stopped in the door, his face going white, though he'd known what he'd find. Of course, it was the magician himself. Propped against the sickly green of his file cabinets, the magician lay grotesquely suspended in the reversed stigmata of certain overzealous saints, his head lolling, long hair hiding his face as it coiled about the ground, shifting lightly as rope creaked slightly, bending in the air-conditioned room.

Gooseflesh spread across Shawn's skin as cold air blew up the short sleeves of his t-shirt, nipped at the holes in generically torn denim. Of course, it was less the cold and more the gaping hole in the man's back that chilled him near to the bone. Perhaps similarly affected, Lassiter pushed past him grimly to inspect the corpse.

Shawn forced himself to do the same from the doorway, eyes skirting the hole to look at smaller details—brushmarks in the velveteen fabric of the waistcoat where something had moved against the fabric; the seams of the magician's trousers, a careful, neat line, broken down one ankle where the cheap thread had come undone. Such attention to the human catchings was important; without them, if one looked too long at that _hole_, one began to notice the shine of glistening, wet flesh, the torn edges of skin. It all began to look like meat.

Bile rose in Shawn's throat, as it hasn't in a long time now; details leapt into his mind, but he could barely pay attention to them as he staggered slightly, swallowing often, over and over, focusing on his breath. It wouldn't do to vomit here. He'd worked to get on this case, he wouldn't…still, his eyes closed as he leaned heavily against one wall, and a shiver ran up and down his back, his mind bringing details up to swim in his inner vision, finally making the obvious connections—

The man hung, reverse-stigmatized, his heart torn out. A healthy, robust man of maybe 50; an entertainer, as Bargussi, presumably, had been. Innocents, both of them; -all of them- Shawn's mind reminded him. There were three others, at least three others. Magicians. Fortunetellers.

There was a mental click as he finally slotted himself into the situation. No, this wasn't the first time he had been a killer's target. Calm down. Calm.

But his breath came more quickly, even as Shawn forced his eyes open, forced his posture to remain lax, unbothered. Taking deep, careful breaths, Shawn brought his gaze in a sweeping look that took in the entirety of the room, skipped lightly over the corpse to look around it; above; below; to the file cabinets.

His brow wrinkled slightly as he caught a bit of paper sticking out of one cabinet, and he strode to it as confidently as he could, though his knees were weak as the thick, heavy musk of blood and flesh caught in his nose, the bloom of death skunky underneath it all. Officers watched him curiously as he threw himself against the file cabinet (if none had noticed it thus far, then Shawn would prove his worth theatrically, as he had so many other times), and with a puppetlike pull of his shoulders he wrenched the cabinet open, thrusting one hand inside.

He regretted the enthusiastic movement immediately as his fingernails dug into something stringy and smooth, a lump of something, half-wrapped in the paper he had seen. His fingers made indents but did not tear, and he could feel the raised lines crisscrossing around it, the tough, gristly lines that marked differentiated chambers.

Knowing he was touching a human heart, Shawn yelped, the sound like a blow across his cheek. Lassiter and Juliet both were at his side in an instant, the taller Lassiter able to follow the line of Shawn's outstretched hand, the rusty smudges along Shawn's finger, pulling back and held away from his body as if the digits were liable to crawl up and go for his own throat…

"Oh God" came Juliet's voice, breathy with disgust, though lacking the panicked discovery of Shawn's own voice. Of course, Juliet was a detective, a professional. A note of shame, the remnants of Shawn's father's teachings on masculinity, hit against Shawn's gut, to be ignored. He was not a cop; he need not be stoic like one...It was eventually she who pulled on gloves and reached for the murderer's note, wrapped like butcher paper around the heart.

She read it aloud to all those present, and Shawn, backed into a corner and scouring his hands with soap given by the sympathetic McNab, could feel someone's eyes on him.

The note was oddly aromatic, and the scent of flowers and what smelled like wine briefly wafted through the room as Juliet's voice rang out, speaking a threat against those who use or profess to use "black magic." The officers present listened grimly, and Shawn could imagine the difficulty of such a killer, more specific than most but vague enough to present quite a class of possible victims. How to protect all those who made their living in such a way? Those chosen were of varying degree of visibility and acclaim, age and gender. And Santa Barbara was a place for sun and basking tourists from all over the country; there was a fair number of so-called psychics here, laying out cards, whispering into glass balls…

Following the pull of that gaze still on him, Shawn found himself eye to eye with Lassiter, only several feet away (when had he breached the distance of a room away, Shawn wondered, disgquieted that he might not have noticed something). Imagining the head detective had seen his reaction, Shawn chuckled nervously, scratching at the back of his neck, mussing at the fine hairs there.

"Quite a showman, this killer" Shawn commented, his voice a bit low, a bit hoarse. He cleared his throat.

"Leaving notes—hasn't he seen, well, every crime movie ever made? But then, I'd guess the voices in his head aren't really the reasonable sort…"

Lassiter's gaze didn't waver, but it changed slightly, turning to incredulity.

"When he comes for me, I'll be sure to start talking in tongues—maybe I can lead him in myself." It was meant to be a joke, but came out all wrong. His voice was wrong, for one; husky and dull, it lacked humor, and Shawn realized as he said it that he was actually afraid, that part of him already assumed this killer –would- come for him, though there was no particular reason to think he would be preferred over any other magician. Of course, he was very –public;- the police's own psychic, how many times had he been in the paper?

Then there was the storm that passed abruptly over Lassiter's face. That mild, neutral, uncharacteristic mask broke at the edges, and Lassiter glowered at him. After a moment, the storm turned to a more suitable sneer, and Lassiter moved to clap a hand on the back of his neck. Strong fingers lingered for a moment, eyes downturned on his face, and Shawn stared back for a moment. His lips pursed against the beginnings of a word, and the detective's fingers clenched, digging into the cords of his neck in a way Shawn was more familiar with.

Pressing forward, Lassiter led him away from the scene, out of the room, voice snarling with contempt at the idea that a psychic would say something so disrespectful at a crime scene.

Still, the hand in his neck shook as the two of them broke into open air, and Shawn had a curious thought.

Afraid for him. Lassiter was afraid for him.

What was he to make of that?

END OF CHAPTER FIVE


End file.
